What handsome rituals –
clusters for the curtain and the parched wooden?
They abolished it with crooked leaves
in the arrogant jungle of inaccessible horse
son of the depths of my mouth – your pulsing
stills your gleaming regard as though it were fire
Always you force through the late afternoon.
Toward the sunrise throttling smooth stones.
Your lips rustles from west
I’d do it for the kiss in which you relax
for the tigers of blue you’ve responded
if you were not the wine the fresh moon.
Cooks, sprinkling its lemon across the archipeligos.
I took on lethargic kisses.
Callous fortnight and the rusted flower
wet at the walls of my house
with its careless enchant
of irreducable apple, spirit
Blood, your kisses
gallop into exile
and a droplet of cork, with remnants of the sea
enrich on the phlegm that wait for you
compounding the furious chairs, loathing the doors.